


Sticks and Stones

by deacertes



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Aramis is uncannily good with that musket, Bullying, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-16 12:31:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1347565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deacertes/pseuds/deacertes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as a fill for this prompt over on the bbc musketeers kink meme:</p><p>I can see people being in awe of Aramis' skill with a musket, but I'd like to see others being jealous or even muttering that it's unnatural for any one to be able to hit a target dead centre like that. (Especially if Aramis demonstrates that he can do it time and time again.)</p><p>I'd like Aramis suffering from their spiteful/frightened accusations and the others defending him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

After being handed their orders, the Musketeers turned to go. Treville called them back. "A moment more of your time, gentlemen, please." He came to stand in front of his desk. 

Athos stared hard at Aramis, who discreetly shook his head. He threw a sharp glance at Porthos, who shrugged. All three looked at d'Artagnan.

"What?" the young man asked.

Treville's mouth twitched in amusement. "You're not in any trouble. Unless one of you has something they wish to confess?" The haste with which all four immediately shook their heads, left Treville losing the battle to hide his smile. "The fact is, I have a favour to ask of one of you."

"Sir?" Athos asked, politely.

"I take no responsibility this time," said Treville. "It was the King himself who boasted of your prowess. However, the end result is the same; a challenge has been issued and must be met."

Porthos groaned. Aramis blew out a long breath. Athos remained stony-faced. Only d'Artagnan piped up to inquire if there would be a fee to enter the competition. Treville shook his head. "No fee. No trials."

Predictably, that piqued their interest. "May I ask why?" asked Athos.

"Because I don't believe there's a man in the regiment who would offer any objection to my candidate," said Treville, honestly. His gaze settled on Aramis. "The competition is shooting. Best of five targets. Aramis, will you uphold the reputation of the Musketeers?"

"I would be honoured to, Sir."

Treville nodded his gratitude. "There is a prize for the winner. Though I cannot promise any one will see the money that has been offered, there is also, more promisingly, a musket - a singularly fine weapon."

Aramis' eyes lit up at that and he exchanged a delighted grin with Porthos. "Good. That's settled then. Now get back to your duties."

The four men walked down the steps into the courtyard. "I still don't see why no one else gets a trial," said d'Artagnan, somewhat disgruntled that he wouldn't even get the chance to try for the musket.

"Because if you can find a man who says he can shoot as well as Aramis, I'll show you a liar," said Porthos, bluntly.

Aramis inclined his head in gratitude and threw a companionable arm around his friend's broad shoulders.

Not really trusting Porthos to be impartial where Aramis was concerned, d'Artagnan looked questioningly at Athos.

"He's right," said Athos. "I've never seen his equal with a musket, and I don't believe I ever will."

Porthos turned to d'Artagnan. "Why are you asking? You've seen him shoot." 

"Yes, and I'm not doubting your ability, Aramis. I just-" d'Artagnan ended with an awkward shrug.

"You would have just liked the opportunity to prove yourself," said Aramis, agreeably.

"Yes," said d'Artagnan, grateful that his friend understood.

"We could hold our own trial?" Porthos suggested.

"And what do we offer as a prize?" Aramis asked.

Athos looked thoughtful. "A hat."

The other three stared at him incredulously.

"There's nothing wrong with my hat," said Aramis, indignantly.

Athos arched an eyebrow at him. "No, but the boy doesn't have one."

"So, he gets a hat if he wins. And what do I get?"

"If he wins, you buy the hat. If you win, I will purchase one for him."

"So, I don't get anything for winning?"

"No, but you don't lose anything," said Porthos with a grin.

"Do I need a hat?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Yes," all three men answered together.


	2. Chapter 2

They set up their targets in a clearing outside the city. "What happens if I win?" the younger man asked.

"Aramis will owe you a hat," said Porthos.

"If he wins, I'll eat mine," said Aramis, confidently. "No offence intended."

"None taken," said d'Artagnan easily. "No, I meant - do we tell Treville?"

"We'll tell him," agreed Athos.

"If you win," said Porthos; his tone suggested he didn't think it likely.

They lined up their shots. "When you're ready, gentlemen," said Athos. The two men fired almost simultaneously. d'Artgnan's nicked the centre of his target; however, Aramis' shot punched a hole straight through the middle of his.

d'Artagnan shook his head in wonder. "How do you do it?"

Aramis shrugged. "It's a gift."

"Yours was a good shot though," said Porthos, generously. "Better than I could do."

d'Artgnan smiled gratefully.

Aramis stepped up close to Athos. "I think you need to buy someone a hat."

"Be grateful you don't have to eat yours."

"Yeah, you'd choke on that bloody feather," said Porthos, laughing.

"Look, it's very kind of you, but I'm not really sure I need a hat."

"Of course you need a hat," said Aramis. "But don't let Athos choose it," he added.

Athos looked at him.

"What? I'm just saying your hat lacks a little... something."

"Yeah, a bloody great feather," said Porthos.

Aramis jabbed him in the ribs. "A hat should reflect the wearer's personality. Mine is-"

"Ostentatious?" said Athos dryly.

At the same time Porthos said "Flamboyant?"

Aramis glared at them both. "Elegant and refined."

Porthos snorted.

"Maybe I should just choose my own hat?" said d'Artagnan, uncertainly.

"Of course you should, but we'll be there to advise," Aramis told him.

"Don't look at me. I'm just picking up the bill," said Athos.

"I'll help," Porthos offered.

"I think I'd prefer something that's not too-" d'Artagnan didn't get chance to finish as Athos and Porthos both cut in together.

"Ostentatious?"

"Flamboyant?"

Aramis glowered.

d'Artagnan offered him an apologetic shrug. "Maybe?"

"Very well. One dull, uninspiring hat it is," said Aramis, coolly.

"Oi, my hat isn't boring," said Porthos, defensively.

"Yes, and who was it who told you to buy it?" Aramis asked.

"You," Porthos acknowledged, reluctantly.

"Then, my friends, can we agree that I am the best judge of these matters?"

Porthos and Athos exchanged a glance. "As you wish," said Athos.

"Hey, don't I get a say in this?" d'Artagnan asked. "No," said all three men together. "Fine," said d'artagnan. "I'm only going to be the one wearing it after all," he muttered as he followed them back to the city.

*****

"Look, just stop-" Aramis planted a hand on d'Artagnan's chest and brought the younger man to a standstill. "If I may?"

d'Artagnan threw up his hands in exasperation. It wasn't like he hadn't been trying to get the hat to sit right on his head for most of the afternoon. Aramis removed the hat, adjusted the brim, rearranged the small, tasteful feather decor, and set it back upon d'Artagnan's head. He made a satisfied sound and smiled. d'Artagnan put a hand up to touch; Aramis batted it away.

"You'll get used to it," said Porthos.

d'Artagnan wasn't sure if he meant the hat or Aramis. "So, do we get to watch you shoot at least?" he asked.

"Should do," said Porthos.

"I should imagine his majesty will want us all in attendance," said Athos, sounding far from thrilled at the prospect.

d'Artagnan found himself weighing up the pleasure of watching Aramis trounce the red guards, against standing around in the heat of the day.

"It'll be fun," said Aramis. "I'll take care of the opposition, the king will be suitably delighted, and we'll all go out for celebratory drinks."

"That's about the sum of it," Porthos agreed. 


	3. Chapter 3

The day of the contest came, bringing with it cloudless skies and not even a hint of a breeze. Excellent conditions for firing muskets, considerably less agreeable for standing about in full uniform. The Cardinal had apparently managed to acquire some fresh recruits; there were a number of unfamiliar faces among the sullen assembly of red guards. Aramis' fellow contestant was one of these new men.

"Think he's any good?" Porthos muttered.

"Very, I would imagine," said Athos.

"He won't be as good as Aramis, though. Right?" d'Artagnan asked.

"If he is, I'll eat _my_ hat," said Porthos.

"You can eat this one if you like," said d'Artagnan, darkly, adjusting his for what felt like the hundredth time that morning.

Ten targets had been set out in front of the raised dais where the King and the Cardinal were seated. Aramis bowed to his sovereign and then turned his attention to loading his musket.

"I believe, as the one challenged, my man should have the opportunity to fire first, should he choose to do so," said the Cardinal.

The King pouted. "Treville?"

"Whatever the Cardinal wishes, your majesty."

The Cardinal's man stepped forward and made ready his musket. The targets had been set at less than fifty yards. The guard took aim and fired at the first of his five. It clipped the centre ring, so did the second, and the third.

"He's good," d'Artagnan murmured, softly.

Porthos sent him a sidelong glare.

d'Artagnan responded with a slight shrug. "I'm only saying."

The man took his fourth shot - and hit the target dead centre - his companions errupted into cheers.

"I wonder what kind of wine goes best with hat?"

Porthos rumbled unhappily and d'Artagnan's teasing look was overtaken by a frown. "Aramis can beat him?" he asked them, seeking reassurance.

"Just watch," Athos told him.

The guard waited until his companions had quietened and then took his final shot; this one was just right of dead centre. The cheering started up again. The King peevishly called upon the Cardinal to control his men. Once they had quietened, Aramis stepped forward to take aim at his first target.  The musket ball flew true and hit dead centre. The red guards instantly looked a lot less happy. Aramis' second shot was equally impressive. By the third shot, the Cardinal was clutching his wine with white knuckles. After the fourth, the King was leaning forward in his seat.

"I've never seen anything like it," said d'Artagnan in awe, as Aramis prepared to take his final shot. "He can't hit all five like that, can he?"

Porthos grinned. Even Athos wore something close to a smile. The final musket ball struck the target; there was a moment of disbelieving silence and then it was the musketeers turn to shout and cheer. Smiling, Aramis turned to face the King, bowing once more. The King was already on his feet, clapping vigorously. "Bravo, oh, bravo. What say you, Cardinal. Have you ever seen such marvellous skill with a musket?"

"No, indeed, your majesty," the Cardinal drawled. "Clearly your man has been blessed with a rare talent, one might almost say an unnatural ability." That last part was deliberately pitched to carry over the clamour of voices. Athos and Treville exchanged a concerned glance. Unnatural was not a word to be bandied about in public; not when their were still too many people willing to cry witchcraft. Athos looked over at the red guards and was dismayed to see several of them cross themselves. Porthos hadn't noticed; he had embraced his friend and lifted him off his feet. The other musketeers surrounded them, laughing and praising Aramis.

D'Artagnan caught Athos' expression. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Then why so grim. Aren't you pleased that Aramis won?"

"Of course I'm pleased, but there are others here who aren't."

"Yes, the Cardinal looks like he's eaten something rotten."

"We should leave as soon as possible."

"You don't think he'll do anything?"

"Not the Cardinal, no. He's far too astute to let this kind of matter concern him for long, but I can't say the same for his men."

D'Artagnan glanced at the red guards; most just looked miserable. One spat on the ground as he caught d'Artagnan watching. However, it was the tight group gathered around the loser that suddenly made him uneasy. Treville quietened his men as the King prepared to perform the award ceramony. d'Artagnan was able to catch snatches of the guards' conversation.

"I tell you, there's not a man alive who can make that shot every time."

"It's bloody witchcraft."

"Aye."

"No man can beat Etienne like that without Satan's help."

D'Artagnan stared back at Athos increduously. "Do you hear what they're saying?" he hissed.

"Yes. Don't draw attention," Athos told him. "Hopefully, all this will soon die down and be forgotten."

D'Artagnan wasn't so sure. These men weren't just angry, they were frightened. A couple of them were repeatedly crossing themselves. Surely they weren't so stupid as to believe Aramis capable of sorcery? "This is madness," he muttered.

Athos gave him a warning look and d'Artagnan fell silent as the king called Aramis forward to recieve his prize. Predictably, there was no purse, but the musket was a fine weapon. Aramis returned to Porthos' side holding it for the other musketeers to admire. His joyous smile dimmed slightly when he spied Athos and d'Artagnan's expressions.

As the other musketeers gradually moved off, he walked over with Porthos. "Is something amiss, gentlemen?"

"We should go," said Athos.

Aramis glanced over Athos' shoulder. One of the red guards made the sign of the cross and turned away. Aramis raised his eyebrows. "Well, that's rather impolite."

"That's more than impolite," Porthos growled.

Athos stepped forward to block him. "Don't. The last thing we need is a brawl here."

Aramis clapped a hand on Porthos' shoulder. "He's right. Besides, we have wine to drink."

******

The wine flowed long into the night. Porthos was soon arm wrestling a succession of musketeers who had drunk enough to try their luck. Athos was deep in his cups with d'Artagnan slumped beside him, more asleep than awake. Aramis was chatting with a serving girl. As the evening finally drew to a close the pair walked off together, accompanied by the catcalls of those still sober enough to register what was going on around them.

Morning saw the bleary-eyed musketeers stumbling across the garrison yard to report for duty. Athos had pulled his hat down to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun. d'Artagnan quickly copied his example.

"Now you see why you need a hat," mumbled Porthos, from beneath his own.

d'Artagnan started to nod, but quickly aborted the motion.

"Where is Aramis?" asked Athos.

Porthos shrugged. "In bed?"

"He left with a girl, I think," said d'Artagnan.

"He's never late for duty," said Porthos, starting to sound worried. "No matter whose bed he spent the night in."

"We'll get our orders and then we'll look for him," said Athos.

Treville made no mention of Aramis' absence; a victory over the Cardinal earned one a certain amount of leeway it seemed. Athos peered blearily at their duties for the day as they descended the steps.

"What's he doing here?" Porthos muttered.

d'Artagnan followed his gaze to the gate, where a man stood, apparently trying to keep a low profile. "Who is he?"

"Gillain," said Athos. "One of the Cardinal's men."

"A red guard?" d'Artagnan was incredulous. "Why would he come here?"

"Good question. Let's find out shall we."

The guard had removed his conspicuous red cloak, but clearly he was anticipating recognized. "Athos, Porthos," he greeted them.

"Gillain, to what do we owe the pleasure?" Athos asked.

"I have some information that might interest you." 

"Go on."

Gillain pulled a face. "Don't get me wrong, I still think you're bastards, but I want no part of this."

"No part of what?" Porthos snarled.

"Your friend. They grabbed him off the street last night." Gillain squawked as Porthos slammed him into the wall. "I came to tell you. I didn't have to. I came... I... " His voice gave out as Porthos continued to apply pressure.

"Let him speak," said Athos, urgently. "Porthos, we need to hear what he has to say."

Porthos eased up on the pressure and Gillain sucked in a desperate lungful of air.

"Tell us everything. Leave nothing out," Athos warned.

"The girl - she was a lure. They'd paid her. They wanted to get him on his own. It's Etienne, one of the new men. After the contest he started on about witchcraft. Some of the others listen to him. He persuaded them to act."

"Where did they take Aramis?"

"A place outside the city. Look," Gillain scrabbled desperately in his clothing and withdrew a tattered scrap of paper. "See, I even made you a map."

Athos took it, scouring the details. Porthos slammed the man up against the wall one more time for good measure. "If they've hurt him, I'm coming back for you," he promised.

Gillain scurried away as soon as he was released, almost tripping over a dog in the street in his haste.

"Would't it have been a better idea to have taken him with us?" d'Artagnan asked. "What if he's lying?"

"I don't believe he is," said Athos. "Not when we know where to find him."

Porthos was already halfway across the courtyard, heading for the stables. "Come on," he shouted, impatiently.

They were spotted by Treville as they prepared to ride out; he called down from the balcony. "I don't belive I gave any orders for you to leave the city today."

"We believe Aramis may be in trouble, sir."

"Then find him, gentlemen. Find him," Treville barked.


	4. Chapter 4

Aramis had foreseen a pleasant end to the evening when he had agreed to walk the girl back to her lodgings, even if his only reward was a goodnight kiss. He certainly hadn't been anticipating the blow to the back of his head that had knocked him unconscious. He awoke to find himself bound and gagged in the back of a covered cart. With no clue to the identity of his attackers or his whereabouts, he could only surmise by the sounds he could hear over the creaking wheels that he was no longer in the city. Eventually, they stopped and the canvas was thrown back. Aramis blinked as his eyes adjusted to the sunlight. As he was pulled roughly from the cart he saw that they were on an ill-used track surrounded on both sides by dense woodland. His abductors were familiar; with a sinking heart, Aramis realised that they were some of the newly recruited red guards.

He was shoved unceremoniously along the road for a short way and then dragged down a slope that brought them out in a clearing beside a narrow river. However, it was not this that caused Aramis' steps to falter. Ahead of him, a stake had been driven deep into the earth, bundles of kindling were piled nearby. A primal fear seized Aramis, dear God, surely they were not going to burn him. Desperately, he searched their faces for any sign that this was a ruse, but found only fanaticism and cold-eyed determination.

The men holding him tightened their grip as Aramis began to struggle in earnest. Another stepped forward and yanked the gag from his mouth. He struck Aramis brutally across the face, forcing his head to snap back. 

"Get him ready."

"No!" Aramis cried. "This is madness! You cannot do this!" He dug his boots into the earth, but they picked him up and carried him, bucking and writhing. "I've done nothing wrong! This is murder!" They ignored his protests and a second blow left him stunned as they tied him to the stake. Aramis blinked, trying clear his head, tasting blood from his lip. "The Cardinal cannot have condoned this. He would not." Aramis didn't want to believe it, even as fear constricted his throat. Had his friends' warnings come too late. Was the the price he was to pay for bedding the Cardinal's mistress?

"He as good as gave us his blessing," said one of the men.

Aramis stared at him.

"Said it where we would hear him. Asked why no one had got rid of you yet."

Aramis made a hopeless sound. The man who appeared to be the leader of the group stepped up and removed the crucifix and rosary beads from around Aramis' throat. He clutched them in his fist and stared hatefully at the musketeer. "It is blasphemy for you to wear these." He hurled them into the river.

Aramis choked back his own anger and made a last attempt to appeal to the madman standing before him. "In the name of the God we both love, do not do this."

The man's eyes turned wild. "I do not worship Satan," he snarled, spittle flying from his mouth. "And my God will rejoice at your fate." He moved away and signalled for the kindling to be lit.

Aramis decided then he would plead no more for his life; he was a musketeer, he would face his death with courage and dignity. However, he did begin to pray, perhaps harder than he had ever before. He prayed for strength and fortitude. He prayed that the fire would be hot enough to reduce his body to ash. He prayed that his friends might be spared the grisly find of a blackened, twisted corpse. He prayed for his friends - that hatred might not consume them and darkness not find them. He even prayed that he might find forgiveness in his heart for the men who had condemned him to this terrible death. Finally, as the flames took hold, Aramis raised his eyes to heaven and prayed that the ordeal ahead of him would be over quickly.

He could perhaps be forgiven for not hearing his rescuers' approach over the crackling of the fire and the pounding of his own heart. However, those awaiting his demise immediately took fright upon hearing the sound of horses hooves upon the road. All save for their leader, who looked enraged that any one would cheat him of his victim. He drew his sword; one of his companions grabbed his arm and began to pull at him. "Etienne, no. We have to go. Come on!" He tugged at Etienne once more and then turned and ran. The rest had already melted into the trees. Etienne hesitated and then as the musketeers began to slide and scramble down the bank he too fled.

d'Artagnan spared the fleeing man a brief, hard stare but didn't pursue him. Instead, he ran to join Porthos and Athos, who were already pulling aside the kindling and beating at the flames with their cloaks. Heedless of the scorching heat, Athos moved in close and used his dagger to cut Aramis free. Porthos caught him as he slumped forward and swept the unconscious man up onto his shoulder. d'Artagnan's eyes widened as he saw the flicker of flames on Aramis' leg and yanked his hat from his head to snuff them out. They carried Aramis away from the still smoking remains and carefully set him down on the river bank. d'Artagnan used his slightly charred hat to bring water. Athos wet his scarf and wiped Aramis down before placing it across the man's forehead.

"His leg," said Porthos, his voice cracking.

"We need to get him to a physician," said Athos.

"No." d'Artagnan placed a hand on Porthos' arm when he would have picked Aramis up. "Wait."

"d'Artagnan-" Athos began.

"Listen to me," the young man insisted. "There was this friend of my father's, he fell onto a cooking fire as a child. He said he would probably have died but his grandfather placed him in a stream. The cool water saved his life, he said."

"We've already cooled him off," said Porthos.

"No, the burned area has to be put in the water," said d'Artagnan.

"He could sicken if he gets chilled," objected Porthos.

"No, I think d'Artagnan may have something," said Athos. "I too have heard of this. We'll put his leg in the river. You can hold the rest of him out of the water. He doesn't need to be fully immersed."

Still not completely convinced, Porthos nevertheless seated himself at the water's edge. Aramis moaned and twisted in his arms, trying to extricate his leg from from the frigid water. Without a moments hesitation, Athos took off his boots and stepped into the river, holding Aramis' leg under. When he began to shiver, d'Artagnan took his place, nudging the older man aside with a firm. "Go on. I've got this."

d'Artagnan couldn't say how long they should continue, so it was left to Athos to decide. After a short while he decided that Aramis had had enough.

"Should we take off his wet things?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Yes. Porthos, give him your shirt."

It was no easy matter to peel off the soaked, blackened clothing, foul smelling with smoke and cinders. The left on his underclothes, and Porthos took off his shirt and dressed his friend in it. They could see now that Aramis' leg was blistered and reddened, but on the whole it did not look too badly injured, his boots and uniform had afforded him some protection. They wrapped Athos' wet scarf around it, thankful they had arrived in time to spare him further serious injury from the fire.

"I'll kill them," Porthos promised, as he climbed into the commandeered cart with his friend.

"We wait," said Athos, firmly. "Aramis is our first priority. We wait until he is well enough to tell us exactly what transpired."

"What does he need to tell us?" Porthos demanded. "You heard it from Gillain's mouth. We saw those bastards running like the cowardly dogs they are. We found Aramis-" He stopped, unable yet to bring himself to speak of what he had seen.

Athos finished tying Porthos' horse to the back of the cart. "Do you think I don't feel as you do? Do you think that I don't want to hunt them down and exact payment?" Athos drew in a harsh breath and let it out again slowly. "But we can you honestly say you could identify any of those men? Are we really prepared to trust Gillain's word?" 

"He was right about this," Porthos pointed out.

"Even so, I would speak with CaptainTreville. Aramis deserves justice for this, not simply revenge."

*****

Treville had taken one look at Aramis lying in the back of the cart and had sent the stable boy running for the physician. "What happened?"

"Apparently, several of the Cardinal's new men chose to believe that Aramis' skill with a musket could only be as a result of sorcery. They decided to take matters into their own hands."

"Dear God," said Treville, looking sickened. "They tried to burn him?"

"They had him tied to a stake," said Porthos; his voice promised violence for those who had hurt his friend.

"Put him in his room. I'll take this directly to the King," said Treville.

Aramis had revived enough to take a drink and ask after his wounds during the journey back. He had drifted off again as they entered the city, but he woke now as they prepared to help him out of the cart. He sat on the end of it, hunched over as he was gripped by a fresh bout of coughing. "I'm fine, I'm fine," he croaked, waving off their concern.

"You're not bloody fine," Porthos growled.

"You're at least close to half-cooked," said d'Artagnan, with all the tactlessness of youth.

Athos and Porthos both gave him incredulous looks, but Aramis laughed. "Yes," he agreed. "I do feel a little like I've had few turns on a spit." He coughed and regarded his bare feet forlornly. "I'll miss those boots; I'd only just got them broken in."

"Come here," said Porthos, getting ready to lift Aramis.

"I can manage," Aramis insisted, only to break off into a bout of fierce coughing, which quickly became a desperate wheezing.

d'Artagnan watched anxiously as Porthos gently rubbed the stricken man's back, instructing a panicky-eyed Aramis to breathe. "Slowly. In. Out. That's it. Good. You're doing good."

Athos accepted a cup brought over by the cook and helped Aramis to take small sips. "Better?" he asked, as the wheezing eased to a raspy inhale and exhale. Aramis nodded, evidently not trusting his voice to speak. He placed an arm around Porthos' shoulders and allowed his friend to carry him without further objection.

Having settled him in his bed, they sat with him to wait for the physician. It didn't take long for d'Artagnan to realise that Aramis was far from an easy patient.

"No."

"Aramis-" Porthos tried.

Aramis cut him off with the force of his glower. He folded his arms across his chest. "I do not care to be bled."

"Ah, my mistake, you are perhaps a trained physician?" the man asked, testily.

"I am not," Aramis admitted. "But since I am generally preoccupied with keeping my blood on the inside of my body, I cannot see, sir, why I should allow you the privilege of relieving me of any." This speech seemed to sap much of his strength and he sank back against his pillows looking pale and sweaty.

The physician sniffed and began to set out the tools he needed for letting blood.

Aramis directed a feral smile at him. "Bring any of those near me and we'll see who's blood is spilled."

The physician hesitated. "Perhaps you gentlemen might like to hold the patient down."

Athos placed a warning hand on the man's arm. "He said no."

The physician stared. "Surely you do not listen to the foolish histrionics of a wounded man?"

d'Artagnan silently mouthed "Foolish histrionics?"

Porthos put a hand on Aramis' shoulder. Unfortunately, Aramis was too far gone to be calmed by the touch of his friend. "How about I show you what this foolish man can do with a blade, hmm? Would you like that?"

The man huffed and began to pack away his things. "I still expect to be paid," he told Athos as he was shown the door.

"Speak to the Captain, I'm sure he will reimburse you for your time." The door clicked shut and Athos turned to face the man in the bed. "Is he really so terrible?"

"Not terrible, no," said Aramis. "I would go as fair to say he's actually quite good, if you have a broken limb that needs resetting."

"But you don't trust him with this," said Athos, waving a hand towards Aramis' leg.

"Not with this, no." 

Athos nodded, accepting Aramis' word without question.

"So, what do we do now?" asked Porthos, unhappily.

"I need..." Aramis broke off into another bout of dry coughing. He accepted several careful sips from the cup Porthos held for him before he trying again. "Honey," he rasped. "I need honey."

Athos handed some coins to d'Artagnan. "Fetch some honey from the market. I'm going to see if there's any word from Treville." He looked at Porthos, who nodded to indicate that he had the rest under control.

*****

When Athos returned, d'Artagnan was applying a sticky looking paste to Aramis' leg under his watchful tutelage. "Is that enough?" the young man asked.

Aramis leaned forward as far as he could to inspect d'Artagnan's work. He sat back with a smile. "I couldn't have done better myself." His smile faded as he began coughing again.

"Perhaps, if there's any left you might try adding some to your drink," Athos suggested.

Aramis waved a hand in acknowledgement. "A... good... idea..." Athos looked for the honey. Porthos tried to prop his friend a little higher up on the bed, since it seemed to ease the coughing. His arm brushed the back of Aramis' head and the man twitched.

"Aramis?"

"It's nothing."

Athos and Porthos exchanged a look and Porthos gently ran his fingers over his friend's scalp. "That's one nasty lump," he declared.

"Yes, well. Ow. Don't keep touching it."

"Sorry." Porthos lowered his hand.

"We can't all be blessed with your hard head," Aramis grumbled.

"Was that from when they took you?" d'Artagnan asked.

Aramis nodded and gingerly explored the injury for himself. "Yes. They used something: a stick, a stone? I don't know. Whatever it was it was hard."

"Harder than your head, certainly," said d'Artagnan, moving around the other side of the bed to see for himself. "Looks like it bled a bit."

Porthos rumbled unhappily. "Did you hear anything from Treville?" he asked Athos.

Athos nodded. "Yes, surprisingly the Cardinal didn't try to deny his men's involvement, but he did insist that he had no idea of what they had planned. They were new men; untried and untested, or so he claims. Conveniently, they have also deserted. The King has issued a reward for their capture. He's very unhappy, apparently. Says an attack upon one of his musketeers is to be viewed as an attack upon himself. He scolded the Cardinal quite severely for not being more selective in the hiring of his men."

"I would have enjoyed seeing that," said Porthos. "Do we believe him?"

"That his men have deserted? Yes. They're probably heading for the border as we speak."

"About him knowing?"

"That's a little harder to say."

Aramis had remained silent throughout this exchange. "He has every reason to hate me," he added quietly.

"The Cardinal hates everybody," said Athos. "That doesn't necessarily equate to him wanting you dead."

"I slept with his mistress."

"Unwise, certainly, but hardly a mortal blow."

"You don't think that the Cardinal would kill someone for the sake of his injured pride?" Aramis asked incredulously.

"I think that the Cardinal would kill someone for far less reason that that. But this was a little too showy for him."

"Showy?" Porthos snarled.

Athos held up a hand to indicate that he had not meant to be flippant. "He might arrange a dagger between your ribs. Or an ambush on a lonely road-"

"-that's comforting," Aramis interjected.

"But this isn't his style," finished Athos.

"He would have burned the Comtesse," Porthos pointed out, unwilling to relinquish all blame.

"Yes, but that was not precisely of his doing, and he did not go through with it."

"So, no one gets punished for this then? That's what your saying?"

"Regretfully, no. Unless we're talking about punishment after their deaths."

"I'd rather hand out their very painful deaths personally now," said Porthos, angrily.

d'Artagnan nodded in agreement. "Can't we go after them?"

"After who? I very much doubt that the Cardinal will be eager to give us their real names. And we've no descriptions to go on. We might be able to drag something else out of Gillain, but I'm not sure how helpful it would really be."

Porthos stepped into Athos' space. "I thought you wanted to get the men who did this."

Athos glanced at Aramis, who sat pale and still propped against the pillows. He looked back at Porthos. "What I would like," he replied slowly and deliberately, " is to beat them to death with my bare hands. But since I cannot, I will have to accept that."

The two men regarded one another silently for a moment, but whatever Porthos saw in Athos' gaze seemed to satisfy him and he sat back down. "I'm still not happy though," he added.

"Duly noted," said Athos.

"It seems wrong that they're going to get away with it," said d'Artagnan. "I man, what's to stop them joining a regiment somewhere else?"

"Absolutely nothing," said Athos. "Now have a drink." He handed the young man the bottle of wine. d'Artagnan frowned, but drank before passing it on to Porthos.

Aramis took it next. He looked around the room at the collection of tight, angry faces. "Gentlemen, please. This is not a wake." He held the bottle up. "To good friends." He drank and held the bottle out to Athos.

"To good friends," Athos repeated. The bottle was passed back around, each repeating the toast.

When Aramis got it back, he made a second toast, his normally melodious voice a hoarse rasp. "And to our foes. May the fire that awaits them be far hotter than the one I evaded."

"To their eternal damnation," said Porthos. Athos smirked and took a drink. d'Artagnan followed suit.


	5. Chapter 5

Athos regarded the empty bottle regretfully before placing it on the table. "We should go." He stood and looked at Porthos. "You'll stay with him?" The corner of his mouth quirked at Porthos' expression. "I'm sorry, that was a ridiculous question." He touched Aramis' arm briefly. "Try not to give him too much trouble; it's been a long day."

"Me? I'm no trouble at all."

Athos and d'Artagnan were half out the door when the younger man suddenly stopped and turned back. "Wait. Wait. I nearly forgot, sorry. I found these in the river. This one's broken, but you should be able to get it repaired." d'Artagnan placed the gold cross and the broken rosary into his friend's hand. The lines of pain on Aramis' face softened as his fingers closed around them, clearly too overcome to speak. Porthos rewarded d'Artagnan with a broad smile, while Athos squeezed his shoulder. "It was pure luck really," d'Artagnan admitted. "They were right beside my foot." He turned to leave again, but paused when Aramis reached for him, encircling his wrist with a shaky hand.

"Thank you."

d'Artagnan regarded him solemnly. "You're welcome."

Aramis released him and sank back, clutching his treasures to his chest as Athos guided d'Artagnan out the door. Porthos locked it and then set about removing his coat and boots, preparing to spend the night in an uncomfortable chair.

"You can't possibly sleep there," Aramis told him.

"I'll be fine."

Aramis patted the empty space on the bed beside him. "There's plenty of room here."

"I'm not going to hurt your leg."

"If you do, I'll no doubt yell and you'll apologize, and then we'll both go back to sleep. That's still no reason for you to sleep over there."

Porthos was unconvinced.

"Very well," said Aramis, tightly, plucking at the blanket with restless fingers. "The truth is, I would prefer the reminder that I am not alone."

Porthos mentally berated himself. Hadn't Aramis struggled with night terrors for weeks after Savoy, and other occasions had borne witness to bouts of insomnia and troubled dreams. He was unlikely to be spared on this occasion. Conscious that his friend had swallowed his pride to make such an admission, Porthos kept his tone nonchalant. "I suppose I might as well listen to you snore all night from over there as from over here."

"I don't snore."

Porthos carefully settled himself on the bed, mindful not to jostle Aramis' leg, which rested on top of the bed-coverings. The last thing he saw before he snuffed out the light was Aramis' small smile of gratitude.

  
*****

  
A soldier's instincts woke him sometime in the night; Porthos was immediately aware of Aramis breathing erratically beside him. He knew from past experience that any attempt to bring his friend out of it with a touch would almost certainly be met with violence. Instead, he spoke softly but urgently. "Aramis? Easy, my friend, it's all right, it's just Porthos. This is your room, remember? Aramis, come on, wake up for me." Porthos kept this up until Aramis gasped his name.

"Porthos?"

"Yeah, I'm here." Porthos waited until he he could feel Aramis moving and then put a hand within reach. Aramis latched onto it. Porthos knew that Aramis was still clawing his way back from whatever nightmarish hell his mind had cast him into.

Gradually, Aramis' breathing slowed and he began to cough.

"Come on, let's get you a drink."

Aramis responded by tightening his grip.

"Easy now, it's all right," said Porthos. He was only too aware that Aramis wasn't himself during these nocturnal episodes, and though Aramis often had little or no memory of what transpired, he chose to tread carefully around his vulnerable friend. He waited Aramis out; grimacing as the cough grew steadily worse.

"P-porthos?" Aramis repeated, his voice rougher but more alert.

"You need a drink," said Porthos, gently but firmly. He carefully extricated his hand and then fumbled around in the dark until he had lit several candles. Aramis' skin looked like faded parchment in their dim glow; the brittle pallor contrasted with the bruise that ran down one side of his face and the shadows beneath his eyes. It made Porthos' heart ache to look at him.

He held the cup while Aramis took slow, cautious sips, his breath catching painfully between each mouthful.

Eventually, Aramis turned his face away. "No more, thank you," he rasped.

Porthos set the cup down. They sat in companionable silence; it didn't last. Aramis struck the bed with his fists.

"Why?" he asked, bitterly. "Why would they do this? It was a childish contest, nothing more." Aramis turned beseeching eyes upon his friend. "When did Athos' skill with a sword inspire such hatred? When did your strength? Never. Men look upon you both with envy, but they don't cry sorcery. Why me? What is wrong with me that they would condemn me?"

Porthos took both Aramis' hands within his own. "There is nothing wrong with you," he told his friend, fiercely. "Nothing. The fault for this lies solely with them. I cannot speak for why they acted as they did, for I don't believe it's truly possible to comprehend the actions of mad men, and that's what they are. Mad. But know this. It. Is. Not. You."

Aramis stared, searching his face. Whatever he found there seemed to satisfy him as the tension left his body with a sigh. "I do not know what I would do without your friendship."

"Nor I without yours," replied Porthos, honestly. "You, Athos, d'Artagnan. As long as you three stand with me, what do I care what others think."

Aramis squeezed his hands in silent acknowledgement of the truth of his words.

"Can you get back to sleep?" Porthos asked, knowing the answer would almost certainly be no.

Aramis confirmed this with a shake of his head.

"Want to talk about it?"

"What is there to say? I dreamt of searing heat and flames. Now that I am awake I know it to be a trick of the night and nothing more," said Aramis, dismissively.

Porthos pretended not to see the pinched look around his mouth and eyes. Aramis had been left badly shaken by his dream, that much was clear. However, Porthos also knew there was little to be gained in trying to get him to speak. Instead, he snuffed out the candles and carefully climbed back onto the bed. He found Aramis' hand in the darkness. "I'm here," he offered simply.

Aramis didn't pull his hand away.

The heaviness of sleep settled into Porthos' limbs, but he refused to surrender to it. He would lie awake all night if necessary, giving whatever comfort his friend needed. He knew Aramis and the others would do as much for him. For that was the creed they lived by: all for one and one for all.


End file.
